


(Not Just) Any Port in a Storm

by Kedreeva



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Communication, Consent, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, I don't know how to tag this ok so I'm hoping that's enough, Intense intimacy, Like reconsider reading this in public levels of intimacy apparently, Massage, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Smut, Minor Angst, Other, Platonic Relationships, Tenderness, That was not enough tags, Touch-Starved, Touching, True Forms, Wing Kink, Wingfic, Wings, apparently I also need to add, mild d/s tones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 02:10:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20499179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva
Summary: A cranky, touch-starved Crowley turns up at Aziraphale's bookshop to ask for help, and Aziraphale obliges.





	(Not Just) Any Port in a Storm

Aziraphale was not surprised when Crowley turned up at the bookshop looking for all the world as if he were being hunted. The door shut and locked behind him, the blinds dropping to close out the rest of the world as he stalked past Aziraphale and into the depths of the shop. Aziraphale just barely caught a glimpse of sleek, black wings unfolding as Crowley rounded a bookshelf and disappeared from view.

Sometimes, Crowley got into a _mood_, and so Aziraphale, having not been addressed at all, stayed where he was and continued to read his book. At least, he continued to look at the page he was on, and there were words on it, and he definitely looked at those, too. Rather than register a single one of them, however, most of his attention stayed stretched toward Crowley as he prowled among the stacks, halting and going in fits.

Eventually, and it wasn’t so long this time, Crowley came to stand at the edge of Aziraphale’s vision and just watched him not-quite-read. Aziraphale ignored him, having no intention of interrupting this particular ritual. In the few times this had happened, if he spoke up first, Crowley would leave. It wasn’t malicious, Aziraphale didn’t think- it certainly felt more like Crowley had to overcome some resistance in himself before moving forward. Sometimes he did not, and he would leave anyway.

That suited Aziraphale just fine. Everyone had their quirks, and Crowley had always been understanding of his own.

So, he waited.

He turned a few pages while he waited, wanting to at least seem like he was _actually_ ignoring Crowley, and by the fifth page, Crowley had begun to fidget restlessly, wings rustling as he shifted.

“Angel,” he said, with a familiar mix of irritation and pleading.

Aziraphale glanced up, as if noticing Crowley for the first time. “Crowley,” he greeted, a little upturn at the end as if he were asking a question.

Crowley made a small, frustrated noise, but he stopped fidgeting now that he had Aziraphale’s attention. “Can you… you know.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Aziraphale said quietly, not letting Crowley look away from him. “If there’s something you’d like me to do, you’ll have to say so.”

The small feathers by Crowley’s shoulders hackled, and for just a moment the fire in his golden eyes made Aziraphale wonder if he would walk out after all. Instead, he said: “I’d like help preening my wings.”

Aziraphale studied him for just long enough that Crowley fidgeted once before Aziraphale let out a breath. “Of course.”

He closed his book with a certain amount of purpose, not bothering to mark the page, and set it to the side of his desk. Then he rose, crossed the space, and took a seat on the couch. Crowley watched him, somehow managing to resemble both a rabbit ready to bolt and a hawk ready to stoop on its prey, and Aziraphale did not address either look. He did catch Crowley’s gaze and pat the cushion beside him with one flat palm.

This time, there was no hesitation. Crowley folded himself into the space beside Aziraphale, kneeling and collapsing himself until he fit, somewhat backward from how sitting on couches was supposed to go. Aziraphale sat back a little and Crowley shifted to spread one sleek wing, primaries flaring before it settled, warm and heavy on his lap. Crowley tipped his head to rest sideways on the back of the couch to watch.

Aziraphale was not a fool. Crowley’s wings were, as usual, in a state of near perfection. Still, he smoothed a hand over the obsidian feathers. “Your wings don’t look like they need preening,” he said, close enough to the brink of idly that it might have been mistaken for such by anyone else. “You take very good care of them, yourself.”

Crowley was not anyone else, and held very still as soon as Aziraphale had spoken. He was close enough that Aziraphale heard his throat click when he swallowed, and he could almost taste the objection Crowley wanted to give him over the subtle praise. Still, there _was_ something Crowley wanted, even if it was not preening.

“I don’t like being lied to,” Aziraphale continued softly, not moving his hands from where they rested. “If there’s something you want, you have only to ask.”

A soft shudder ran through Crowley’s frame and the words, when they came, were rough around the edges. “I want to be touched. Just- just touched.” He let out a breath a little too quickly, and added: “Please.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said quietly, and ran one broad palm with the grain of Crowley’s feathers.

Beside him, Crowley’s eyes closed and his body went lax. Aziraphale raised his other hand under Crowley’s wing to catch it as it sagged, fingers curling just slightly around the over-warm limb. Like this, Aziraphale could feel the fine tremble in Crowley’s bones, and he felt a twinge of sympathy.

His own corporation felt no particular need for touch, but Crowley’s got to starving for it and Crowley, in true demon fashion, tended to ignore the problem until it became unbearable. Aziraphale knew that such a craving could almost always be sated by Crowley’s usual solution of diving into a bar or a club and tempting some searching human to whatever corner or room was closest.

And that worked. For a while.

But on rare occasion, such as the current one that had put Crowley here on his couch, his corporation’s desires seeped into his core and only the sort of touches humans could not give would do. Heavy hands brushed over coverts, thick fingers wrapped around his wing, the warmth of proximity to another immortal creature.

Aziraphale did not mind indulging him in the least, as long as he made sure that it was what Crowley actually _wanted_. On his more wily days, Crowley could snake around a lot of subjects, but in this sort of interaction Aziraphale needed to be certain that Crowley would not blame him for any regrets. He wanted to be certain that he wouldn’t be the one to break what they had by overstepping a boundary.

This time, though, Crowley had asked in no uncertain terms, and Aziraphale obliged in earnest.

He started where he knew the smallest feathers would be, working his fingers delicately in between them until he could get to the thin skin of Crowley’s wing. Crowley didn’t move at all, eyes closed and breathing steady, and Aziraphale might have thought him asleep if he hadn’t known better. Crowley tended to close out all of his other senses when they did this, choosing instead to focus every ounce of his concentration on the feeling of Aziraphale’s fingers as they sought out any hint of a feather in need of care, as they traced around the point of connection for each in turn.

Through it, he kept Crowley’s wing supported underneath with a firm grip around the meat of the limb, hand giving a slow, steady rolling motion, like a deep massage. He met no resistance at all, Crowley letting him move his wing however he wanted, the limb heavy and loose in Aziraphale’s grasp. Aziraphale counted himself very lucky indeed that he was not a human; holding up that weight for longer than a couple of minutes would have been exhausting with mortal strength.

After a time, he ran out of smaller feathers and so smoothed his hand up to where Crowley’s primaries connected to the bone. Gently, he let Crowley’s wing slack down to sit fully on his lap, and pulled his hand out from underneath so that he could use it to flare Crowley’s primaries out. He slid a finger gently between each feather, putting just enough pressure on the skin there, like petting between fingers, and felt more than heard the rumbly noise Crowley made in appreciation.

Aziraphale smiled.

“Still with me?” he asked softly, hands falling still so that Crowley would notice.

Crowley hummed a noise that might have been confirmation, and then opened eyes that seemed to want to stick closed and blinked blearily at him. “Yes,” he said, voice a bit sluggish, but no hint of a hiss on his sibilant. “Please.”

“Please?” Aziraphale repeated. He hadn’t offered anything.

“Don’t stop,” Crowley replied, eyes sliding closed again. “Feels nice, angel.”

Aziraphale made a soft noise of agreement, resuming his gentle ministrations, one soft finger slipping between the outermost of Crowley’s primaries. He wanted to say a lot of things, to remind Crowley that he didn’t have to wait so long for this if he would just say something sooner. That Aziraphale had no problem helping him when needed- it had been a part of their arrangement for so very, very long that it hardly seemed out of place. But he kept his lips sealed and hoped that his touch could convey the sentiment, soft and lingering and precise.

When Crowley twitched a little at his touch, Aziraphale withdrew and moved down to the secondaries, wary over letting Crowley’s skin get too sensitive in any one spot. Almost immediately Crowley relaxed again, giving a small hum when Aziraphale rolled the loose skin of his patagium between his fingers. The texture was knobbly and unique and when Aziraphale did it close enough to the muscle, Crowley pressed into it just the tiniest amount. Aziraphale indulged him, following the roll of his fingers down to the muscle to slide over it and then back up to skin, soothing and almost repetitive.

As Aziraphale moved from elbow to shoulder joint, Crowley tipped forward a little, forehead coming to rest heavy on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked, voice just above a whisper and leaving no room not to answer.

Crowley nodded, shifting the fabric of Aziraphale’s coat, and then lifted his wing a little, stretching it farther to make it easier to access the part of the limb closest to his body. He made a small noise, as much encouragement as it was pleading. He let it sag just enough that Aziraphale caught it from below.

It wasn’t quite like having a giant, heated blanket over him, Aziraphale thought, but it came very close. Carefully, Aziraphale wormed his fingers through Crowley’s underwing coverts to get at the thick muscle of his wing and then a little more, until he clasped it in both hands. Crowley’s breath left him in a rush when Aziraphale gave a squeeze with both hands, working gently but firmly at the muscle until Crowley’s wing slacked completely.

Aziraphale released one hand just long enough to make sure Crowley’s feathers weren’t being bent by the sudden lack of support, sending the tips of them off the edge of the couch, and then returned to his task. Crowley, despite almost never needing help with the actual preening part of caring for his wings, had always thoroughly enjoyed the decadence of a wing massage and now was no exception. Aziraphale worked his way from just before the elbow until just shy of the area where Crowley’s wing connected to his back, and froze when Crowley leaned harder into it.

At his pause, Crowley made a wounded noise and twisted a little, wing muscles tensing against Aziraphale’s hands as Crowley tried to push closer. Aziraphale followed the motion, not letting him.

“Crowley,” he warned, and Crowley slumped back a bit in defeat. Aziraphale let out a heavy breath, nearly a sigh, and pushed at the center of Crowley’s patagium, causing the wing to fold a little in response. “Your other wing?”

“Right,” Crowley agreed, voice a little raspy.

He didn’t move.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured after a few minutes of utter stillness. Crowley stirred a little, but did not lift his head. “Do you want me to get your other wing as well?”

With what appeared to be a good deal of effort, Crowley shifted and hauled himself away from Aziraphale’s shoulder, rising up on his knees. Aziraphale leaned back against the back of the couch to give him space as he swayed a little and swung a leg over Aziraphale’s lap. For a second, Aziraphale thought he meant to swap sides, to lay against Aziraphale’s right side instead, until Crowley settled himself right there on Aziraphale’s lap and let his head drop back to Aziraphale’s shoulder, wings draped open to either side of them.

“Not really,” Crowley mumbled.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, not moving to touch beyond where his hands now rested along Crowley’s calves. “Something else, then?”

They had done this, too, on even rarer occasion. While most angels were sexless, Aziraphale included, most demons were not. Crowley certainly was not, though even now he kept a certain kind of distance, as if waiting for permission or, Aziraphale suspected, as though unsure of his welcome now that so many things had changed after the apocalypse. Aziraphale tipped his head a little, just enough to rest the side of his face against the side of Crowley’s.

Hell, Crowley had once confessed to him in the deep of an alcoholic binge, had been a clingy, terrified place just after the Fall. Everyone had been licking their wounds and feeling betrayed and in an awful lot of need for companionship. Angels, while formal, were generally close knit in private, and the freshly minted demons had been no better, frightened and in need of some semblance of what they had just lost. They had expected _change_, but not like _that._

Crowley’s assignment to Earth – exile, Crowley had drawled at him that night, a sneer on his face that didn’t reach his eyes – had taken him away around the time that the demons started to turn toward vices instead of questions. The first time Crowley had gone back after Eden, he hadn’t recognized the place. The last vestiges of kindness had seeped out of the demons there. No gentle touches survived.

But Crowley had.

Crowley had come back to Earth and twined himself up in the lives of humans. Petty, squabbling, ruthless, gentle humans, with their wars and their drama and their love of soft things and fine spirits and ever-changing clothes and traditions. And through it all, he had kept the company of the one creature in all of existence who was kind to him despite knowing the truth of him.

Kind, Aziraphale had tried to explain, _because_ he knew the truth of Crowley. That Crowley, with everything to lose for doing so, had somehow held onto his gentleness.

But that sort of thing was beyond Crowley’s ability to handle, even when completely sloshed, and they had had to drop the subject.

Here, however, in these few quietly desperate moments spread across millennia, Aziraphale had found that Crowley would let himself have what he needed, if only for a little while. Here he could press close enough to Aziraphale that he could lie to himself about having said any words at all. He could bury his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder and let himself have a moment’s relief, unseen.

And when he did, Aziraphale gave it to him gladly, his only hesitation in the asking of it. Having Crowley in a loose pile of limbs and heat on his lap seemed like more than enough permission from the outside, but Aziraphale was a creature of words.

“If there’s something else you want, Crowley, you-”

“Touching,” Crowley interrupted, not moving from his position. “Skin touching.”

“My dear, you’ll have to be a little more loquacious,” Aziraphale told him. “I was already touching skin.”

Crowley gave a frustrated growl, the sound reverberating down to Aziraphale’s true form. He remained quiet for a few long moments, breath coming harder than usual. Aziraphale let him, waiting for him to work through it, knowing that it could go either way. Crowley might tell him what he wanted, but he might yet get up and leave.

Finally, however, Crowley took a deep breathe and let it out. “I want hands on my sk- on my body. At the moment, your hands, if you don’t mind.”

Aziraphale obliged, slipping fingers under the material of Crowley’s shirts to slide up along the curve of Crowley’s back to the base of his wings. A slight chill rushed over the backs of his hands as the garments disappeared back to the firmament from which they’d come. Crowley’s skin prickled at the new temperature but the trembling Aziraphale knew did not come from cold. He dragged his hands back down, firm and steady, to Crowley’s hips, but did not linger.

“Like that?” he asked, voice even and thumbs over Crowley’s ribs as his hands climbed back up.

Crowley nodded, breath caught. “Can I-” slipped out on part of an exhale. His fingers curled into the fabric of the couch to either side of Aziraphale.

Aziraphale smoothed his hands back down to pause at the lip of Crowley’s trousers. Crowley was holding himself wired so tightly still that there was only one possible question he could be asking. He wanted the permission he’d been so uncertain of just moments ago.

“You can,” Aziraphale told him, pleased at the instant sag of Crowley’s entire body, the way his hips gave a little jerk at the words and the way it brought them closer together. “Of course you can move. You’re not-” He scraped for words when Crowley shifted enough to grind himself slowly over one of Aziraphale’s thighs, a soft, high sound of relief dragged out of him. “You’re not an imposition, Crowley. You know I want to help you however I can.”

“You sh-shouldn’t have to.” The words stumbled out of Crowley, muttered against Aziraphale’s shoulder with enough irritation that Aziraphale felt them burning. “I should-”

“There’s no _should_ anymore,” Aziraphale said, cutting him off. “You haven’t got to stand on ceremony. You’ve no one to answer to but yourself.”

“And you,” Crowley added, stilling.

Aziraphale’s grip tightened a little, thumbs on the sharp lines of Crowley’s hip bones. “Not even to me. I won’t judge you. I’m not here to hurt you. You can let go enough to get what you need.”

Aziraphale ducked his head closer to Crowley to avoid being clipped by the lead edge of Crowley’s wings as they swung up, mantling protectively around them both to press into the couch behind Aziraphale, as if Crowley could shield them from such a feeling. Vulnerability was still not Crowley’s strong suit, even here, even so willingly laid bare as he was in Aziraphale’s hands.

“I’ve got you,” Aziraphale murmured, noting the shudder that ran through Crowley’s body at the reassurance. “You’re safe here.”

They had not been truly safe in six millennia, but in their dealings with Adam, Aziraphale had been reminded of his ability to kill one thing if it would protect another, more precious thing. Aziraphale could think of little more worthy of his protection than the unsteady shiver of Crowley’s warm breath feathering over the crook of his neck. If they were not, exactly, safe, Aziraphale at least knew that anyone that came for Crowley would need to go through him first, which was the safest Crowley could possibly _be_.

Crowley made a small, plaintive noise and rocked his hips again in a plea, and Aziraphale resumed the broad strokes of his hands. He kept the pressure as even as he could, soaking in the heat under his palms, making sure not to skim any one place for long enough to irritate. Crowley kept his hands where they were, fingers curled into the loose material of the couch to brace himself as Aziraphale pet over his skin.

When he was sure Crowley was significantly relaxed, he swept both hands up the sides of Crowley’s back and stopped just shy of touching the base of Crowley’s wings. Crowley choked on a noise of protest, arching his spine to try to close that last inch, but Aziraphale only moved with him again.

“I’m going to touch your wings,” Aziraphale told him, steady but not demanding.

“Yes, yes please, Aziraphale, _please_,” Crowley begged, still squirming in place but not shoving insistently now that his desire had been offered to him.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, fondly enough that at least one of them would have been embarrassed another time. “You lovely creature.”

He closed the distance, clever fingers finding the joint where wing met shoulder and pressing hard. This was, Aziraphale knew from experience, the most sensitive and most _vulnerable_ part of them, the atom-wide gap between Crowley’s humanity and his true form. If Aziraphale were to slip, if he were to touch just wrong, he would find himself with his hands irreparably scalded by hellfire.

But he stopped short, fingers kneading into the meat of the joint, up a little onto his wing, down a little onto his shoulders, and Crowley fell apart in his lap, hands finally loosening from the couch just to hold onto Aziraphale’s clothing and hips grinding in earnest over Aziraphale’s thigh. Crowley’s breath washed hot over the pulse in Aziraphale’s throat, and Aziraphale realized it wasn’t all human heat.

Carefully, Aziraphale extended the senses of his true form just far enough, until he could feel the raw vibration of Crowley’s true form trembling at the barriers of flesh containing it._This_ he recognized. Crowley had loosened his grasp on his control, holding himself on the very cusp of a shift.

It would hurt them both, possibly even kill them, if he tipped over, Aziraphale knew, but he trusted Crowley implicitly. Aziraphale smoothed his palms flat down the suddenly chill skin of Crowley’s back, Crowley’s spine curving up into the motion like a snake’s, trying to follow his touch, barely coherent anymore. He dragged warm fingers back to the base of Crowley’s wings, drawing a low keen from him as his hips rocked forward hard on Aziraphale’s thigh, brushing up against his belly.

Hellfire burned under Aziraphale’s fingers, so close and yet just far enough away. He could tolerate a certain proximity to Crowley’s true form, and intended to, so his fingers continued to play over Crowley’s wing joint, brushing against the seam of his being as the pressure loosened. Aziraphale closed his eyes against the heat as it brewed beneath Crowley's skin with every passing moment, let it warm his own skin until it was nearly unbearable, until he was certain it would burn him if he let it.

“Crowley,” he warned, thick and low and rough. He didn’t want to stop him, _god _but he didn’t want to stop him at all, wanted to see him finally let go of all that binding, loathsome control and relax… but it was stop him or be destroyed, and so he murmured: “Like a human.”

The heat vanished, and Crowley gave an almost pained whimper at the effort of reeling in his true form. He pressed close, wings pulling in tight and shivering to either side of Aziraphale as Crowley shuddered through a very human release.

Aziraphale held him there, hands stroking up and down his flanks, cheek against Crowley’s temple, murmuring gentle praise that Crowley didn’t have the faculties left to deny. Crowley panted heavily against his neck, breath damp and still a little too warm, but Aziraphale made no move to comment or stop him. As Crowley’s heartbeat slowed back down, so too did Aziraphale’s movement, until they fell silent and still.

Finally, after long minutes of just existing in the same space, peaceful and calm once more, Crowley nuzzled his forehead against the curve of Aziraphale’s neck and pulled away, slipping to his feet. Aziraphale rested his hands just above his own knees, feeling the fading heat Crowley had left behind. He said nothing as Crowley folded his sleek wings out of sight, his shirts reappearing with the same flick of his fingers that cleaned the mess.

“Thank you,” Crowley said, voice a bit raw but so genuine that Aziraphale’s heart ached for him.

“You haven’t got to wait so long,” he told Crowley softly, peering up at him curiously. “I don’t mind helping you with this, especially since you can’t...” He gestured vaguely down, toward the floor. “Well, there’s no help from down there anymore.”

Crowley met his eyes for only a second before his gaze slipped sideways and he addressed the nearest bookshelf. “I know. But I- I mind. Not you,” he rushed to say, shoulders tightening. “Just-”

“That it gets like that at all,” Aziraphale said. “I do understand, you know. And I meant it when I said I won’t judge you, Crowley. It doesn’t matter what you come to me for help with, not anymore. I’ll help.”

Crowley nodded, a smile twitching briefly at his lips. Aziraphale could feel the change in subject before it happened, their more casual dynamic clicking into place. “Suppose it’s the wrong order, but d’you want to get dinner later?”

Aziraphale smiled, letting him drop the more difficult subject. “I would love to. Would seven work?”

“I’ll pick you up,” Crowley agreed, finally looking at him again, warmth evident in his golden eyes. “See you then, angel.”

Aziraphale watched him go and then drew in a breath and let it out slowly. He glanced to either side of him, and picked up the few black feathers that had gotten dislodged by his work. He ran them between his fingers, enjoying the silky feel of the vanes, and then clambered to his feet and laid them upon his desk to be used as bookmarks later.

Then he sat back at his desk, opened his book, and found the place he’d abandoned when Crowley arrived. There were a few hours to dinner yet, and he had every intention of finishing the story before then.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I'm acutely aware I said I wasn't going to do this but I'm a lying liar that lies and also my brain would not shut UP about this, so here we are. I hope you enjoyed this and please be kind, I don't normally write NSFW, I just needed it out of my head!


End file.
